


Shut Up And Take It

by Catchclaw



Category: Star Trek RPF, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Porn, Angst, F/M, Feminist Porn, Graduate School, M/M, Masturbation, Porn Watching, Pornstars, Sexual Fantasy, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 18:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10366689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “Jesus fucking Christ, Zach!” Chris bellows. “I’m not sleeping with Karl Urban at a porn conference!”“No, of course you’re not,” Zach says, making grabby hands at the nearest towel. “Not if you don’t write the damn paper.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to [Areiton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton) and [cymbalism]() for their persistent, enthusiastic encouragement.

“Jesus, Pine,” Zach says, “you don’t  _write_  about porn! Who does that? Porn is for fapping, not for some goddamn literary analysis.”

“It’s not—” Chris says, fighting back the defensive, “it’s not like I’m comparing it to  _Madame Bovary_  or something.”

“Uh huh.”

He'd gotten the email during class, during what felt like hour 47 of his Literature of the Body seminar:  _We are pleased to inform you that your paper,_ ‘Say it for me again”: Karl Urban and the Feminist Discourse of Enthusiastic Consent _, has been accepted to the—_

And he hadn't stopped grinning about it until he was halfway through making dinner. Until he told Zach. 

“Look, it’s gonna be a discursive analysis of Urban’s pre- and inter-coital negotiations, with a specific focus on—”

“Wait wait wait,” Zach says, interrupting his pour. “Hang on. This paper’s about  _Urban_? Karl Urban, the porn guy—the Kiwi, right? The one you’ve had a thing for since, like, the dawn of time.”

Color in his face, the same as the Ragu bubbling in front of him. “Yeah, it will be. Once I actually write it.”

“And now you have to watch this guy’s porn for school? For a  _grade_?” 

“No,” Chris says. “Like I said, it’s for a conference. The, um, the Feminist Porn Conference. It’s in Toronto at the end of February.”

A grin stretches over Zach’s face, around the rim of his glass. “You’re going to Canada to talk about porn.  _Feminist_  porn, no less.” 

Chris send the spoon around the pot, stabbing the rotini a little more than strictly necessary. “ _Yes_.”

Zach laughs. Pushes back from the table. “Christopher,” he says, “maybe you’re secretly a genius after all.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Zach slings an arm around his waist, plants his chin on Chris’ shoulder. “But there better not be spreadsheets involved. Please for the love of Christ tell me that you’re not gonna watch porn and, like, take notes.”

Chris plucks the glass from his hand, downs the rest of the rosé in one go. “‘Fraid so.”

“Ugh,” Zach says. “But fuck, are you gonna have some kick-ass slides.”

His advisor isn’t as understanding.

“Are you sure this is the best use of your time, Chris?” she says when he goes in to ask (beg) for travel funding. “This isn’t exactly a conference that’s well-recognized in our field.” She taps a pen on her teeth. “I’d never heard of it, actually. And neither has anyone on your committee.”

“I mean, yes, it is a niche thing,” Chris says, “a bit outside the lines of traditional literary studies, but porn studies is a growing field, one that’s premised on interdisciplinarity. They’ve just established a new peer-reviewed journal, in fact.”

“That’s certainly laudable, but—”

Chris sits up a little straighter, pulls his serious seminar face. “Well, Dean Kerr was just saying last week that she really wants us to be branching out, to work with scholars from a wide variety of fields.” He leans over, taps the preliminary program on Dr. Gray’s desk. “Indeed, it’s because this subject is so unique—encompassing the embodied, the performative, the outreach to the divine—that the disciplinary confluence at this conference has the potential to be quite extraordinary.”

Ok, now she’s listening. “Hmmm.”

“It’s an important opportunity, I think. One that could be truly valuable. In fact, I”—is he really gonna to go there? Yeah, he is—”I think I could make some contacts there who could be useful in my job search.”

Dr. Gray’s eyes light up. “Yes,” she says, thoughtful. “Yes. I imagine you could.” She squints down at the program. “Where did you say this was being held?”

He walks out with a bad taste in his mouth and the promise of $1000, reimbursed.

“I hate talking like that,” he tells Zach as they walk home.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s a business, in that pseudo-corporate academic speak. God. ‘Disciplinary confluence’—that’s not even a thing! I just made that up!”

Zach shoves his hat out of his eyes, grins into the wind. He’s still lit up from rehearsal, bouncing with leftover energy. “So you speak their language. So what? They’re gonna pay you to go talk about porn.”

“No, that’s not how it—”

“Look, just shut up and take it, Pine.”

Chris snorts. “Charming.”

Zach bumps his shoulder. “Don’t quote me on that out of context.”

“Yeah, don’t worry.”

They stop at a crosswalk and Zach gives him the eye. “Guess you’re glad you didn’t tell them you were leaving yet, huh? They might not have been so easily swayed by your silver tongue.”

Chris adjusts his glasses, ignores the swoop of guilt in his gut. “Yeah,” he says. “Good point.”

His mom gets it right away, though. What’s important.

“Oh, honey,” she says, her voice humming over the line. “That’s great news.”

“Yeah,” he says, circling around the couch, Zach’s enormous gym bag, the cat snoring in the middle of the rug. “I mean, it’s a good thing, getting to go talk to smart people about something I care about, that I’m actually interested in. I feel like—I feel like I’ve got something to say, you know?"

“Yes, I can tell. You sound happy.” A pause. “Been awhile since I’ve heard that from you, kiddo.”

There’s a pause, the sound of the street, Zach’s voice ringing out from the bathroom, singing:  _To go to the festival_. The echo of what his mom isn’t asking.

“This hasn’t changed how I feel, though. About what I’m gonna do, after May. Just so you know.”

“Ok,” she says, a little sad. “I figured. But still, this’ll be good for you, getting away.”

“She’d love to call me ‘doctor,’” Chris says, later.

Zach sighs, twists the hot tap, quarter turn. “Yeah, well, she’d also love to see you not be miserable.”

“Yeah.” Chris folds his legs on the bathmat and leans back against the cabinet. The cat wanders over his legs, pokes her nose under the shower curtain. “I know.”

“You know I love you, but you’ve been a miserable fuck for the past two years, hon.”

“I’m nicer to my mom than I am to you.”

The cat hops on the edge of the tub and stares into the water, dubious. “God, I hope so,” Zach says. “And you don’t you fucking dare, Riis.”

“Riis,” Chris says. “Come here, baby.”

“Look at it this way: if you’re gonna leave the academic whatever for good, you might as well go out guns blazing. Or dicks blazing. Same thing.”

“That is, ok. No one’s dick is blazing here.”

Zach laughs, the sound ringing off the shitty blue tile. “I don’t know. I think yours is gonna get a workout."

“Fuck you,” Chris says. “It’s for science.” 

“Yeah. Keep telling yourself that.” His face lights up, sudden. “Hey, what’s his name, Urban, he’s not coming, is he?”

Chris’ head snaps up. “What?” he says, horrified. “Oh my god. No! Why would you even say that?”

Zach shrugs, nudges the cat away with his knee. “Just wondered. You said some performers were gonna be there.”

 “Yeah, a few. They’re giving presentations, too. But I didn’t see his name in the program. Jesus, why the hell would he go to something like this? That’s crazy. Come on! There’s no fucking way.”

“Ok, ok,” Zach says, “God, calm down.”

“I am perfectly calm,” Chris says in a voice two octaves above normal, sending Riis skittering out with a hiss, and alright, maybe he’s not.

“Uh huh,” Zach says. He pops the drain and the water rushes out, reluctant. “Anyway. The only thing I have to say if that if you don’t get laid at a fucking porn conference, I’m disowning you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Zach!” Chris bellows. “I’m not sleeping with Karl Urban at a porn conference!”

“No, of course you’re not,” Zach says, making grabby hands at the nearest towel. “Not if you don’t write the damn paper.”

  
****************

  
He only has a month to write it, which is actually a good thing. It means he has to be selective and focus and accept that from the outset that he can’t fit it all in, everything he wants to say about Urban.

About his discursive practices before and during sex, that is. His rhetorical choices, his timing—that’s the focus here. Word selection and frequency. Not his laugh, or his beard (jesus), or the way his eyes go bright when he’s got his partner(s) going, or how hard he seems to get off on making other people come.

Um. Words, Chris thinks. Come on. Words.

He rubs his eyes, settles his spreadsheet, and clicks  _play_.

He’s watched this scene, “String Me Along,” a half dozen times before at least, and still, the opening frames are amazing: the wicked joy on Urban’s face as he peels his clothes away, slow, as he grins down at his partner. She’s fidgeting in an armchair, and he’s standing between her and the bed, both of them amused and aroused as he teases her and the camera.

 “I like this,” he says, sliding his belt through its loops, one by one. “How about you?”

She nods, her cheeks the color of carnations, her eyes pinned to him like butterflies. “Mmmhmm.”

He drops the belt, his jeans falling low on his hips. Tucks a finger under her chin. “I like what it’s doing to you.”

Chris’ fingers stutter on the keys. No, he tells his dick, stern. _Quit it_.  
  
It was filmed in somebody’s actual bedroom, it looks like, blond Ikea-type furniture peppered with geek stuff: figures of Batman, a  _Lost in Space_  lunchbox, a model of the  _Enterprise_. There’s a big picture window and the room is swimming in light, lazy gold of a summer afternoon that pools on the floor, flicks up over Urban’s skin as he chooses to reveal it. He never takes his eyes off his partner, either, and fuck, it’s hot. So’s the way she’s looking back, wide-eyed behind black frames. She seems into him, what he’s doing, and as surprised by it as Chris was the first time he watched this. 

Oh god.

“There now,” Urban says on the screen, tanned, bare, and gorgeous. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

His partner—who’s still dressed, poor woman—nods, her mouth curling up, hungry. “Yeah,” she says, stretching out her hands. “Come here.”

But he doesn’t. He moves away instead, sits on the edge of the bed. Gets a hand on his cock. “No,” he says, scratch, his hips twitching with the pleasure of his own touch. “No, baby. Not yet.”

“Fuck,” Chris hisses, pushing back from his desk, fumbling for his fly. “Goddamn fucking—”

By the time Urban comes, his chest awash in red, his dick thick and wet in his fist, his partner’s given up all pretense of just watching. She’s kicked off her jeans and her panties and has her fingers wound deep in her cunt, still pinned to that stupid chair as Urban strokes himself through it and Chris, Chris is fucking lost, groaning, tipped back from his desk and coming in tight, pent-up punches all over his jeans.

When he’s sensate again, Urban’s on his knees, lapping at his partner’s clit and fucking beaming up at her, humming against her folds as she comes with this heart-stopping wail and then he’s picking her up, easy, his beard slick from her cunt as he presses her into the bed with long, hungry kisses and big, pretty hands and what’s he saying as he eases into her? As she arches her back and laughs and slaps his ass? His mouth is definitely moving, so Chris should be counting them, Urban’s words, typing them into neat little blocks, coded yellow and green, not fucking jerking off again like he’s fourteen, like he can’t keep his hand off his dick for more than ten seconds and ok, maybe the research part is going to be more difficult than he thought.

The thing is, it’s hard to distance himself from it, the pleasure he takes from these scenes, harder to look past the  _hello sailor_  and apply critical distance to the man, to read Urban as an object of study rather than as—what? A subject who inspires his lust. 

He adds another color to his spreadsheet and tries again. And again.

He watches Urban with women, Urban with men, Urban by himself and as appealing as that one is, it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with his argument, so he only watches it twice.

He watches Urban fuck, watches him get pegged, watches him watch his partners fuck each other, his hands on their skin, his voice sweet and dirty. He gets off more in two weeks than he has in six months, and still he doesn’t write a damn word. He can’t.

He curls over the keyboard for hours, taunted by the bastard blinking cursor. He changes the font, tries single spacing, blanks out the screen and wills himself to type.

Nothing.

The more porn he watches, the more of Urban sees, the more obtuse the whole project becomes. And pointless. Really, really pointless.

Maybe he’s got nothing to say.

“I don’t get it,” he says to Zach a week before the conference, slumped next to him on the couch. “Why isn’t this working?”

“I think you’re trying too hard.”

“Huh?”

Zach hits the volume, turns away from  _The Voice_ , from the script he’s supposed to be studying. “Maybe you should stop trying to ‘collect data,’ weirdo, and just, like, pay attention to why you like Urban’s porn so much.”

“Zach—”

“No, I’m serious. What makes this guy so damn fascinating? It can’t be just that he’s hot.”

Chris thinks for a minute, hides his face behind his beer. “No, yeah. It’s more than that. It’s—he’s got this aura of joy in his scenes, like he freaking loves every second of what he’s doing.”

“I think that’s called acting.”

“Pfffft. How would you know?”

“My ego is beyond your cruel taunts, Pine. Anyway, quit deflecting.”

Chris leans back into the cushions, watches Christina Aguilera throw her arms around some skinny kid with a microphone. “Ok, it’s like, the guy radiates pleasure. And on screen, he’s like a mirror: he reflects how good his partners feel back at them and makes them feel even better in the process. And that—that comes across to the viewer, somehow.” He laughs. “Hell, it makes watching his stuff really  _fun_. Beyond the getting off part. His scenes are hot, yes, even fucking dirty sometimes, but his is the only porn I’ve ever watched where I came away feeling good, even happy, in a way that transcended my dick.” He looks up, catches Zach’s big, glittery grin. “What?”

Zach pokes him firm in the chest. “That’s what you need to write about, hon. That. Right there.”

“About—?”

“About how Urban and his porniness make you  _feel_.”

“Ah, no. That’s not academic, Zach.”

“Well, neither are you, apparently.”

“Ok, I deserved that.”

“Mmmhmm.”

The wheels in Chris’ head are turning, rusty screech. But—

“But I can’t do something different  _now_. My title’s already in the program.”

Zach snorts. “Big fucking deal. Nobody’s gonna hold you to that. They’re not going to throw you out for changing your mind.” He plucks the beer out of Chris’ lap, gives him a little shove. “Now get in there and cue up some hella good porn, son.”

“All right, all right.” He gets up, turns back. “Thanks, Zach.”

“Anytime. And oh,” he calls as Chris hits the hallway, “there are more tissues in the closet if you need ‘em.”

“What?”

A cackle. “Or maybe you’re a tube sock kind of guy, huh?”

Chris ducks back, sticks his head around the doorframe. “You’re disgusting.”

“No, I’m practical!” Zach hollers after him. “I’m not Swiffering up your spunk, Christopher!”  


****************

So. He tries it Zach’s way.

He x’s out of Excel—good riddance to it, the fucker—and grabs a piece of paper, a pen. Carries them and his laptop to bed and stretches out. Unbuckles his belt. 

The scene is called “Aria,” and it’s a long one. There’s a ton of setup, which was why he’d chosen it in the first place. He’d been planning to pick the set-up scenes apart, to extract all the data he could from the many, many words that preceded the cascade of sex. 

Well, ok. Fuck that. 

He zips ahead, dragging the scroll bar until he sees Urban pop up in a tux, and ah, here it is.  _Play_. 

Urban pushes a blond guy into a closet, both of them dressed to the nines, classical music blasting somewhere outside. It’s a coat closet, maybe, or it’s supposed to be, but the set dresser didn’t try very hard. It doesn’t matter. What’s important is that there’s a door that separates out there from in here, the rest of the crowd from these two men. There’s a light inside and Urban hits it as he shoves the guy into the wall, their kisses hungry and fervent. The camera lingers on their faces, on their tongues, on the low sounds of pleasure the guy’s giving up, the soft growl Urban hands back in return. And then Urban breaks away, his eyes ablaze, and sinks graceful the ground. 

Chris sighs, lets his hand drift over his zipper.

In one smooth motion, Urban peels back the guy’s belt, pushes up his shirt, opens his fly. “Is this what you want?” he says. “Tell me.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” the guy says. He sets his hands in Urban’s hair, tentative, like he’s never done it before, like this is the first time they’ve had a chance to be alone, to be this close.

“Ah,” Chris breathes, sneaking the zip down, but not touching. Not yet.

Urban nudges the guy’s fly open wider and runs his fingers up the ridge of his cock. It’s straining against his briefs like the guy’s been hard for ages, shit, and it’s gorgeous, a lick of wet bleeding through and the noise Urban is making as he pets the guy’s dick is fucking filthy.

Yeah, now he’s touching.

“Yes what?” Urban says, drawing his fingers up the shaft, slow, turning them around the head, just enough pressure to make the guy whine. “Hmmm? Say it for me again, what you said last week, after the meeting. What you whispered in my ear in the lift, with all those people in there with us, Ryan. Somebody could’ve heard you.” He grins, turns his eyes up to the guy’s face. “Or was that what you wanted?”

The guy moans and his hands turn fist, tug Urban’s face in tight. “I want you to—I want—”

“Mmmhmm,” Urban says, nosing at the guy’s dick, his eyes heavy. 

A choked sound, like it’s hard for the guy to say it, like it means something when he does. “I want you to suck my cock, baby.”

The look on Urban’s face, fuck: it’s open and hot and Jesus, almost loving as he pulls down the guy’s briefs, lifts out his cock. “Good,” he says. “Because this has been all I could think about, having your beautiful cock in my mouth. Having you fill me up.” He wraps his fingers around the base and wets his lips and Chris does, too, starts to stroke. “Will you do that for me?” 

“ _Oh_ ,” the guy says, startled, like he’s shocked by how much he wants this, wants Urban, and he presses his hands to Urban’s face and slides his dick in as Urban groans, moves his fist to meet his mouth and Chris tips up his hips, jerks himself faster. 

“Oh,” the guy says again, shuddering. “Oh fuck, oh yes. Fuck yes.”

And this is something Chris loves about feminist porn: it generally lets the performers come when they’re ready, when they want to, instead of dragging out some bullshit myth about the forever-ready pussy, the always-hard dick.

And the guy in “Aria” gets there fast, so fast he doesn’t have time to warn Urban, it looks like; he just thrusts up with a cry and pours it down Urban’s throat, and what makes Chris come isn’t that, isn’t even the smirk on Urban’s face when he stands up, tuxedo perfect, white streaks on his chin. What makes him come is the kiss, the way that Urban opens his mouth and teases the guy’s own spunk over his tongue until they’re clutching at each other and kissing, messy and wet.

It rolls over Chris like sand, smothers the rest of the world for a long, long moment and all he knows, all he feels, is pleasure, the kind that swims out from his dick to the tips of his fingers and it. is. glorious.

The writing gets a hell of a lot easier, after that.

2000 words in two days. Better yet: 2000 words he  _likes_  in two days. He can’t remember the last time that happened.

“So what’s it called?” Zach asks.

They’re on their way to the airport in a taxi that neither of them can afford, but Zach insisted. “I know how you get on BART,” he’d said the night before, waving away Chris’ protests. “You’re not getting on a plane to a sex conference all fucking frazzled like that.”

“What?”

“Your first born,” Zach deadpans. “Your paper, dumbass.”

“Oh.” Chris smiles wide, the afternoon sun in his eyes, his passport caught in his fist. “I’m going with ‘Shut up and take it.’”

Zach throws his head back and cackles for almost a mile.

At the dropoff, he hops out of the cab, hugs Chris hard, kisses his cheek. “Say hi to Urban for me.”

“Ha ha,” Chris says, hefting up his bag. “Very funny.”

Except it’s not, because Urban is there. 


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t know that until after his talk, thank god, and at first, Toronto is amazing.

He gets lost inside the airport looking for baggage claim and it takes him an hour to get to his hotel by the metro but the sky over the lake is this rich, perfect blue and the sun is shining everywhere and there are museums and donut shops every other block.

 **It’s like an Earth-2 San Francisco** , he texts Zach after dinner.  **But with poutine.**

_yuck don’t tell me what that is_

**Gotta go. Have to be up early to present. Give Riis a kiss for me.**

_Of course if she’ll let me. Your cat is a moody bitch._

Chris dumps the phone on the bed and pulls on his pajamas, brushes his teeth. When he climbs under the covers, there’s one more message waiting:

_kick some leather-covered ass tomorrow, P_

He laughs, reaches for the light, and types:

**I’ll do my best**

In the morning, he goes downstairs way too early. Drinks burnt hotel coffee and finds the room for his panel. There’s a woman already in there, tall with combat boots and Rainbow Brite hair.

“Hey,” she says, sticking out a hand. “I’m Dhara.”

“Chris,” he says. “Hi.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You’re the one talking about Karl.”

He tries not to look startled. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

Her smile goes fond. “Ah, he’s a good one. We’re working together next month in Auckland.”

There’s a stream of thoughts through his head, none of which he should express. “You,” he squints, “you, uh—?”

“Yeah,” she says, turning to the table parked at the front of the room. “So do you think we should sit in the order that we’re speaking, or alphabetically?”

“Um?”

Thankfully, the other panelists swoop in and save him from some rash seating error: a professor of sociology from Oxford and the editor of the  _Porn Studies_  journal. So the panel’s got a porn star, two professors, and him, a soon-to-be dropout PhD. Shit.

It’s a little intimidating. 

Especially since everybody else’s talks, even Dhara’s, are pretty wonky, tossing around Foucault and Penley and Marx every other sentence, it seems like, the audience nodding along from their lines of ballroom chairs.

It’s real fucking intimidating, actually.

“Um,” he says when it’s his turn, leaning his elbows on the podium. “Hi. So as you may have noticed from my title slide here, the name of my talk has changed, though the subject very much hasn’t." 

He hits the clicker and the screen is filled with a shot of Urban, wet, wearing just a pair of white, translucent briefs and a really dirty grin.

The room gives up an actual gasp. 

“Hot  _damn_ ,” somebody says in the front row.

“Yes!” Chris says. “Exactly. That’s what I’ll be talking about this morning. How the hot damn that is Karl Urban can make us cognizant of the very particular kinds of pleasure that he can bring us as viewers.” He grins. “That he brings me.”

It’s more of a personal essay, this piece, than anything he’s ever done. He only mentions Baudrillard once in passing, nods at Gayle Rubin, and the rest is just him. This shit would never fly back at school, in the gleaming seminar rooms that make it easy to overlook the cobwebs that crowd the faculty. It’s liberating, is what it is, talking openly about his desire, and it’s a lot less weird to talk about his dick in a room full of strangers than it is to share everyday stuff with most of the people he knows.

He wonders what Zach would make of that.

He gets into a rhythm as he reads and the room does, too. They laugh at his jokes and express appropriate awe at his clips, even toss some good questions at him in the Q&A. The time motors by and when it’s over, the editor of  _Porn Studies_  gives him her card and a bunch of MAs from the University of Toronto toss him their Twitter handles. At least five people ask for a copy of his slides.

He can’t stop smiling.

And then Dhara snags him, catches him on the way out the door. “Hey,” she says, “we’re having a sort of cocktail party thing tonight. You should come.”

“We?”

She laughs. “The Australia-New Zealand wing of the pornographic party. There’s a fair lot of us here. We never get together like this at home, believe it or not.”

“Oh,” he manages. “Huh.”

She gives him a look which is half-intimidating, half-amused. “Trust me. You should come. Nine o’clock. The Elm room, fourth floor. We’ll see you then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Ok. Thanks. I’ll try." 

He tucks it away for the rest of the day, her invitation, because hey, there’s no way.

He shoves up his glasses and listens to a dozen smart people say really thoughtful things about porn production, consumption, about audience attitudes and the ethics of sex work and by the time he remembers to be freaked out, his brain is too pleasantly crispy to care.

Because there's no way. He just wants to read this situation through some fucked-up fantasy lens and there’s zero chance that Urban is actually—

He beats back the thought and heads for the shower, sticks his face full force under the spray.

Nope, he tells himself, winding his way into clean jeans and his favorite pullover. There's no way.

  
******************

He wanders into the Elm Room about 9:30. The place is pleasantly dim, the air full of stretched-out ambient music and laughter, the high happy talk of the drunk and the getting there quickly. There’s a cash bar in the back and he makes a strategic beeline, grabs a Jack and Coke and wonders what the hell he’s doing there.

“Chris!” somebody calls. He turns and Dhara’s at his side, looking delighted. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks for inviting me.”

She’s wearing something day-glo and short, the rainbow pulled up high on her head. She looks like a unicorn who could kick someone’s ass, and ok, she’s a little hammered.

“Mmmhmm,” Dhara says, swinging her arm through his. “I liked your piece a lot, love. Did I tell you that? It’s practically fucking poetry.”

“Yes, you did,” he says, patient man towards the drunk, always. “Thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”

She starts leading them somewhere, an unsteady zigzag through the crowd. “Would you send me a copy? I forgot to ask. I have a friend who I think would enjoy it.”

His stomach sinks.

Oh, he thinks. So that’s it.

He’s disappointed and relieved and disappointed because some part of him, it seems, had bought all the way in to Zach’s weirdly insistent prophecy. But come on. Urban, here? Ridiculous.

“Sure,” he says, patting her hand with the back of his glass. “I’ve got your card. I’ll email it to you when I get back upstairs, ok?”

“Great,” she says, “and I think Karl would like a copy, too, wouldn’t you, poppet?”

“Yeah,” a guy near the door says, lazy smile, and good fucking Christ: it’s Karl Urban. “I'd love to see what Dee’s been on about all afternoon.”

He’s clean-shaven now, his hair’s a little longer, he's wearing a suit that's dark and tight, and for a good 30 seconds, only Dhara's arm's keeping Chris upright. 

“Dee, you’re not an octopus,” Urban says, patient. “Let the man go before you strangle him.”

“Wait,” Chris says, “you don’t have to—”

Dhara unwinds herself, pitches up to catch Urban’s collar and kisses him, smarmy. “I’m only an octopus when they pay me, love.” She makes a face. “Please tell me that’s not in the script for the thing next month. Please.”

Urban laughs. “No tentacle porn for you, darling. I promise." 

“Damn straight." 

“Doesn’t have to be that either, if you’d rather not.”

She rolls her eyes at him, winks at Chris—which is, huh—and turns around, dips back into the crowd.

“Love that woman,” Urban says, “but god help the people who get on her bad side.” He grins, sticks out a hand. “Hi. I’m Karl." 

“I’m Chris, um. Chris Pine.”

“Nice to meet you.” He leans back, gives Chris a onceover. “Dee seems to think we should talk. What about you? Would you like to?”

“What does she think we should talk about? 

That gets him an eyebrow. “She claims that you’ll remind me why I shouldn’t be such a cynical dick.”

“What?”

Urban laughs. “My sentiments exactly.” He nods at Chris’ glass. “Why don’t we go have a drink somewhere and maybe you can enlighten me.”

It’s the  _somewhere_  that gets Chris, that reminds him where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s talking to. Oh god. He knocks back the last of his Jack, crunches hard on the ice.

“I, um,” he says through a mouthful of shards. “How about the bar in the lobby?"  
  
They find a table near the wall. Chris orders a shot of bourbon on the rocks and Urban, he orders—

“Something pink,” he tells the waitress, his lips curving.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’d like something pink. Bartender’s discretion.”

“Pink?” Chris says after she’s moved away. “You order your drinks by color?”

“Not all the time,” Urban says. “But in an unfamiliar bar, yeah. Gives me a sense of the bartender, sometimes. And sometimes it’s just damned entertaining.”

“Huh.”

“Never order blue, though. Trust me. No matter what country you’re in, what bar, blue is fucking gross.” 

Chris laughs, something in him easing. “Yeah?”

“Ugh.” Urban shudders, pulls a great face. “There’s inevitably Blue Curacao involved. It’s like drinking crushed Smurfs.”

“Ok, now all I can see is Brainy Smurf in a blender," Chris says. "Thanks a lot, Urban."

Urban chuckles. His collar’s spread open, starched white giving way to tanned skin and dark hair. God. “Are we on a last name basis now?”

“What?”

“You called me ‘Urban.’ Does that mean you prefer to be called ‘Pine’?”

Chris’ face runs hot. “No. Chris is fine.”

Urban smiles at him. “So’s Karl. And now that that’s settled—who the hell are you, Chris Pine?”

“I’m sorry?”

Karl laughs, tips back as the waitress sets down their drinks. “That’s a sharp way of asking for your life story, I guess. Or, no. How about, how’d you end up here, Chris, talking to strangers about my dick?”

Chris snorts, chokes on his bourbon. “Hey, I talked about way more than your dick.”

“Well, obviously that was the highlight.”

“Uh huh,” Chris says. “Maybe from your perspective.”

Karl shakes his head, risks a sip of the pink. “Then you tell me. Otherwise, I’m just gonna keep making shit up about you.”

Wait. Is he flirting? He can’t be.

Chris takes a long sip. “I’m a grad student.”

“Not a jewel thief?" Karl says. "See, I would’ve gone with jewel thief. Good thing you’re telling this and not me.”

Chris clears his throat, fiddles with his glasses. “I’m in a PhD program in English.”

“Impressive.”

“Not really,” Chris says. “Everybody thinks that, but no, trust me, it’s not. Anyway, that’s just what I am today, at least now through the end of May. After that, I don’t know.”

“You’re graduating?”

“I’m quitting. The program I’m in, the whole academic thing—I’m done.”

Karl's twisting a straw in his fingers, watching Chris, careful. “Why?”

“Because I  _hate_  it,” Chris says, vehement. "Because I used to love it and now I don’t. Because it’s made me question myself, my writing, and not in a good way, nothing constructive. More like, breaking down, cutting me off at the knees and then being pissed that I couldn’t run. I hate reading shit I don’t care about and putting words on the page I don’t believe in just to please people I don’t like, much less respect, damn it, and I don’t want to do it anymore.” He catches his breath. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

Karl reaches over, nudges Chris' glass towards him. “Your gut, it sounded like.”

Chris kicks back too much at once and it burns all the way down. “I don’t talk about it much.”

“I’m getting that.”

“I’ve told my mom I’m leaving, and Zach—he’s my best friend—he knows. But haven’t told anybody else.” He laughs, tries to. “You’re the first one. I haven’t even told my fucking program.”

“That seems like something they should know.”

“It’s”—Chris rocks his chair back, stares at the lights—“this is gonna sound weird, but I feel like it’s none of their goddamn business, what I do with my life. It’s my decision and I’ve made it and there’s nothing more to discuss.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “God, why am I telling you this?”

“Because I asked, probably." 

He can feel Karl’s eyes on his face, studying him. Serious. “Oh,” Chris says. “I mean, maybe.”

Karl picks up his drink, swirls the pink. “Look, I don’t know anything about university life, or academic politics, or what have you. But I do know what it’s like when you come to a crossroads in your life—especially when it’s one other people can’t see. Or one you don’t want them to.”

“Yeah?”

Karl leans over, drops his voice. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve stopped performing.”

It takes Chris a second. “Wait, what?” he says. “Since when?”

“Since the middle of last year, thereabouts."  
  
It’s that point in the conversation where Chris isn’t sure if he’s had too much to drink or not enough. “Why?”  
  
“I woke up one day and decided, that’s it. No more. There wasn’t something that happened, no one last straw that broke the camel’s back, I was just—done. So I quit booking gigs, worked out the few left on my schedule, and that was it. Slipped away quiet.”  
  
He sits back. “Truth be told, I was ready to leave for good,” he says. “The business, the people, the fucking on other people’s time. Ten years is a long time to be in this line of work, Chris, no matter how ethical and careful and generally caring your colleagues are.” 

“I can imagine.”

“I don’t have much to show for myself, for all that. That’s what gets me. I mean, I’ve got a decade’s worth of sex tapes—really fine sex tapes, mind—and a little money, maybe. Some good friends. But I figure most people have built something for themselves by this point in their lives. Or at least have a sense of what the fuck they want to be building towards. And I’ve done fuck all of that.” He flashes Chris a smile, sour and small. “See? Cynical bastard.”

“But if you quit,” Chris says, “then why the hell are you here?”

The smile softens. “Well, a friend’s decided to take a flyer on me, is what it comes down to. Karen Leigh—she runs a site called  _Pleasure of Mine_ , do you know it? Anyway, she, dear woman that she is, thinks I should direct.”

The lightbulb goes on, a little fuzzy through the Makers Mark. “Oh—so when Dee said you were working together next month—”

Karl raises his glass. “It will be,” he says, “on my first scene as a director. My first official gig on the other side of the line Which is exactly why I came up here: to sit at the feet of the goddamn best. Karen, she’s on a panel tomorrow with Lara Antonio and Jo Voight and Le Bahn, all these bloody brilliant directors, and as Karen said, if I can’t glean something from their collective smarts and sex powers, I am fucking sunk.’”

“You’re nervous,” Chris says, and he’s not sure why it surprises him, but it does. “This is your thing, though, your people, like you said, albeit from a different angle. I’d think you’d bring a dynamic perspective to it, directing, since you're an actor.”

A smile. “Now you sound like Karen.”

“Which must mean we’re both right.”

 “There aren’t a lot of cis male directors in feminist porn for a reason, Chris. It’s a damned difficult gaze for us to adopt. I mean, it’s not ours to begin with, which is sort of the entire point.”

“Sure.”

Karl chuckles. “Some days I’m not sure that we actually can, no matter how much we want to, how hard we want to try.” He spreads his hands. “So you take all that and add my personal bullshit on top of it and I don’t mind telling you, Chris Pine: I am terrified.”

“Oh,” Chris says.

Karl picks up his glass, licks at the remnants of the salt rim. Chris’ eyes get stuck on the curl of his tongue, the wet slip of his lips, and all at once there’s a soft pull in his gut, the edges of the evening, the strange, worn away to something visceral, something good: he  _likes_  this guy—Karl, not Urban. Yeah, he’s gorgeous and ok, Chris already knows what he looks like when he comes, but he’s also funny and blunt and really, really easy to talk to.

And maybe it’s the fantasy lens talking again, but it feels like—Karl’s eyes flick up, catch him watching—it feels like there might be something to this, something more than subject, meet author.

“And then,” Karl says, “ho there, this morning, Dee hears your talk and rings me up straight away, basically orders me to run here from the airport if I had to so she could tell me about this brilliant guy who’d spelled it out, the good that my dick has done has done in the world, the—how did you put it? The ‘very particular pleasure’ that my work has brought people, brought you, and that’s pretty heady stuff."

Their eyes hitch and stay there for a moment. Stay.

“Just so we’re clear,” Karl says. “What I’m saying is: thank you. It’s good to know that what I’ve done has meant something to you.” He grins and Chris’ mouth can’t help but follow. “Makes me feel less like a fuck-up, I mean.”

“Then we’re even.”

“Another drink, gents?” the waitress says, late-night cheerful. “Maybe something to eat?”

“No,” Chris says, quick, before Karl can open his mouth. “Just the check, please.”

This is stupid, what he’s thinking. Stupid and incited by booze, no doubt, but what the fuck.

Karl watches her leave, turns back with an eyebrow. “Are we finished?”

“Hmmm,” Chris says. He lets his fingers drift, lets them find Karl’s on the table. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I have an extra copy of my paper upstairs. In my room. You can have it, if you want.”

Karl’s eyes flicker, run dark. “Ah. If I want?”

“Yes.”

Karl tips his wrist and lets Chris’ fingers fall in, brush his palm. “I don’t think that’s in question, do you?”

He waves Chris’ wallet away and leaves too much money on the table. They don’t look at each other on the way up. 

At the door, he fumbles with the damn keycard and Karl steps in behind him, steadies his hand.

“Love,” he says in Chris’ ear, his arm curling around Chris’ waist, “you’d better open it right now or we’re both gonna get arrested.”

The lights blink green and they push in and Karl grabs him, pins Chris’ back to the door in the dark and finds his mouth and god, the sounds Karl makes as they kiss, eager and broken, they make Chris cling to him, turn his fingers in dark hair and hang on.

He knocks his glasses away, then Karl’s jacket, and Karl’s body is hot under his hands, humming through his shirt.

“Oh,” Karl murmurs as Chris pulls out his tails, winds his hands over the curve of Karl’s back. “Oh, fuck, that feels good.”

He gets a knee between Chris’ legs, insistent, and Chris lifts, winds one around his waist, his hands ticking up Karl’s spine, still trapped beneath his shirt.

Karl sighs, sinks deeper into Chris’ mouth, humming wordless and warm. His fingers slide under the hem of Chris' shirt, up and over his sides, and it’s like being stroked by a lightning storm, little flicks of electricity that crawl up Chris’ skin, seep straight down to his dick and holy shit, he’s hard, the sudden stiff tense that means he’s close, that he’s—

He stutters, the kiss going slack, and his hips kick, work his cock against Karl’s thigh.

“Yes, baby,” Karl says, low and triumphant. “Yes, come on. That’s right.”

“Don’t make me come like this,” Chris hisses. “God, please don’t do that.” 

“Why shouldn’t I? Maybe that’s what I want.” He noses at Chris’ neck, leaves his mark there. “Maybe,” he whispers, “maybe I want to feel you cream yourself before I touch you. Before I even get a hand on your cock.”

Something comes out of Chris’ mouth, no words, just a feeling, the rawest want he’s ever felt in his life.

Karl growls in response, leans the noise against Chris’ throat. “What was that?" 

Chris digs his nails in Karl’s neck, awkward, his hands still stuck beneath that goddamn starched shirt. “You don’t—fuck, that’s not what you want.”

Teeth on his ear. “It’s not, huh?”

“No,” Chris says, somehow. “No. You, ah, you want to see me when I come. You want to watch my dick jerk and see my spunk on my skin and know that you did it, that I’m coming because of you.”

A groan, a sharp snap of his hips. “Jesus  _christ_.”

“Or maybe you’re the one who’s gonna come in his pants, huh?”

Karl laughs, half-snarls, and pulls away, pulls Chris with him. “Oh, no, baby,” he says as they stumble towards the bed. “I’m gonna come all over your beautiful face.”

Chris hits the pillows and stretches for the light on the nightstand. “That’s what you think.”

The bulb turns and Karl is kneeling on the end of the bed, popping his buttons and grinning from ear to ear. His hair’s a disaster and his cock’s trying cut its way out of his trousers. He’s a picture incendiary. “You’re a mouthy little shit, aren’t you, Chris Pine?”

“Only when I know somebody’s listening.”

Karl laughs again, this deep, hungry thing that reminds Chris that his fucking clothes need to go, right now. “Believe me, love,” Karl says, slipping off his belt, thumbing open his fly. “I can hear you just fine.”

He strips them both and kisses Chris back to the brink, his body rolling over Chris’ in sweet, heavy waves, and then turns them, pulls Chris on his side and wraps his big hands around both their cocks, panting into Chris’ mouth, and Chris loses it loud, clutching at Karl’s shoulders as Karl strokes him through it, rubs Chris against his own dick, stiff and hot and covered in Chris’ slick.

“Baby,” Karl murmurs, “baby, that’s right. Let me have it. Let it all out.”

“Oh,  _fuck_ ,” Chris says, stretching his hands into Karl’s hair, whining through the last few spurts. “Oh, god, oh god, oh fuck.”

Karl groans and Chris can feel his cock jump, can feel Karl’s breath breaking up on his cheek. He lets Chris go and closes his hand around himself and jerks his dick fast, each slap dirty and wet.

“Christ,” he mutters, “Fucking Christ, Chris, I’m gonna come, you’re gonna make me come all over your pretty cock, love, you—”

He throws his head back and shout and rushes hot everywhere, pours it out between them, his mouth leaking soft, hurt sounds that Chris kisses away.

They end up under the sheets, sticky, their legs tangled, Chris’ head on Karl’s shoulder, Karl’s arm around his back.

“I should turn the light off,” Karl says, slurry with sleep.

“Mmmmm. ‘S all the way over there.” Chris tips his face up and nuzzles Karl’s throat. “You should stay here.”

A sigh, and Karl turns his head, leans his lips against Chris’ mouth. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  
******************

When he wakes up around four, Karl’s pressed against his back, snoring into his hair, his hand spread over Chris’ hip.

He crawls out to take a piss and stands there, after, staring at himself in the mirror. The man reflected is wearing his stubble and his eyes and his ears but there’s an ease in the face he doesn’t recognize, or had forgotten, exposed in the stark fluorescent light.

He brushes the sleep from his teeth and slips out, quiet. Hits the light and worms his way back into bed.

“Hey,” Karl mumbles, his arms open, blind.

Chris turns into them and kisses his cheek. “Hi. Sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s ok.”

Chris tilts his head and their mouths meet, Karl’s sleepy pliant under his own. He leans up on his elbow and deepens the kiss, presses Karl into the pillows. He stretches a hand over Karl’s heart, teases his nipple, and Karl groans, arches towards the touch.

“You like that?” Chris whispers.

Karl grabs his wrist, holds his hand there. “Do it again,” he says. “Harder.”

By the time Chris has pinched both nipples pink, lapped at them, turned each one in his teeth, Karl is writhing, his cock heavy against Chris’ stomach, his hands flexing over Chris’ shoulders.

“God, I want you to suck me off,” he says, his voice hot and thick. “Put your mouth on me, baby. Please.”

Chris kisses his chest, his chin, apologetic. “Need a condom,” he says. “Don’t have one.”

Karl laughs, breathy. “Look in my wallet.”

It’s purple and it smells like strawberries and it looks fucking gorgeous on Karl’s cock, especially as he leans back into the pillows, his hands clutched in the sheets, peacocking under Chris’ gaze.

“Oh, you like that, huh,” Karl says.

Chris strokes himself once, then again, rubs the wet from the tip. “I like seeing what I do to you, yeah.”

A smirk that’s pure Urban, filled with warm, wicked joy. “Come down here, then, and get a better view.” 

He comes with his hand firm on Chris’ head, with a dozen swears and a low, satisfied laugh.  
  
“Chris Pine,” he says, later, his fist at work between Chris’ thighs. “You're a marvel.”

They order room service when it’s light and spread it out across the bed. Karl mainlines coffee and Chris hogs the sweet rolls and they argue over the bacon, get crumbs all over the sheets. 

“Karen’s panel is this afternoon,” Karl says. “Can I come find you after that? Or you could come, if you want to.”

“Maybe. There was a screening I was thinking about going to. Can’t remember what time it was, though.”

“Regardless,” Karl says. “I’m taking you to dinner tonight, all right?”

Chris leans over the tray and kisses him. “Yes, please.”

A smile. “Good.”

After, Chris pulls open the curtains and lets the sun in, stares down at the street, at the church on the corner and the people scurrying out of the wind.

He presses his forehead to the glass and his reflection smiles for a long, long time.

They agree to meet in Chris’ room before dinner, but one hello kiss at the door becomes three and then ten and then Chris is sitting at the edge of the bed, his jeans pulled down to his ankles and Karl at his feet, lapping at his dick through a condom and teasing his balls until Chris is begging—“Please suck my cock,  _please_ , oh shit, I can’t"—until Karl grabs his hips and shoves him up the bed, scrambles after, and takes him in all at once, sucks him relentless until Chris comes hard, one long punch that strips his voice away, even as Karl straddles him, his face red and his dick heavy when he tugs it into the air, spits in his hand and strokes himself, furious.

“Fuck,” he says, teeth clenched, his eyes torching Chris’. “God, I could do that all fucking day, suck that big cock of yours." 

Chris rouses his hands and catches them on Karl’s thighs, tense and trembling under his palms. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I could, oh fuck, if you’d let me.” He rucks up Chris’ shirt, digs his nails into Chris’ chest. “You feel so fucking good in my mouth, love. You’d feel so good shooting down my throat. Oh.” His body ripples, a wave that shudders from his feet to his face, and his head falls back, a big, beautiful smile as his fist flies. “Mmmmm, I bet you’d be sweet, wouldn’t you? I bet you taste fucking sweet, don’t you?”

He shoots over Chris’ chest, his shirt, and the look he gives Chris as he runs his fingers through the mess, rubs it into his skin, is so helpless and hot that it hurts, that it makes something in Chris ache, painful and good.

“What the fuck,” Karl says when they can both talk again. “I was hungry.”

Chris laughs, punch drunk and blissed out. “Yeah,” he says. “I can tell.”

Karl snorts and turns over him, grins flush into his face. “Hilarious.”

They clean up enough to be decent and stumble down to the lobby. The concierge points them to a pizza place two blocks over where they sit in the window, puzzling over the kids streaming into the club across the street and making an equitable mess of half-pepperoni, half-cheese. Karl spins yarns about New Zealand, about green fields and sheep that make Chris laugh, that he only half believes. He tells Karl about his mom and San Francisco in the summer and the musical Zach will be in next month, about Riis, about his writing. It’s hard to stop talking, once he starts.

They pass a church on the way back, its spires between shadows and light. Karl tucks him against the wrought-iron gate and kisses him, feeds Chris ardent strokes of his tongue. The moon is out and the streetlights are buzzing and everybody can see them, surely, but Chris forgets about them, forgets everything except Karl’s hand on his face, the drag of his thumb over Chris’ cheek.

“What?” Karl murmurs. “What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing,” Chris says, winding his arms tight around Karl’s neck. “Everything.”

 

******************

 **Hey** , he types in the taxi.

 _!!!! Christopher! where have you been???_ _  
      been 2 days! i almost called the mounties_

**Sorry—been busy.**

_i thought you got kidnapped by a maple leaf or something_  
__NOT COOL P NOT FUCKING COOL__

**I’m sorry I worried you. Didn’t mean to**

_ok well. glad ur ok. what time r u getting in again?_

**About 2 I think.**

_:( have rehearsal then. will u be ok getting home_

**Yeah I’ll be fine.**

_p, please tell me u were out having fun_  
_u didn’t stay in yr room the whole time right?_

**Not the whole time**

_hmmmmmmm_

**Had a good reason, swear. Tell you later**

_i am dubious at best_

**Will explain, promise**

_uh huh. say hi to urban for me._

“Zach says hi,” Chris says.

Karl’s arm goes tight around his shoulder. “Hi, Zach.”

**Karl says hi**

There’s a pause, long enough for the cab to dip out of the city, slip out onto the highway towards the airport.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Chris says, leaning into Karl’s side.

Karl kisses the top of his head. “My pleasure.”

The phone buzzes.

_sure he does_

Chris snorts, shoves the phone into his jacket. Outside, the sun whips over a bus, a beat-up Honda. The sky’s pale, the clouds the color of slate. 

“I’ll be in San Francisco in a couple of months,” Karl had said the night before, in the close quiet after sex.

“Yeah?”

Karl bit gently at his shoulder. “Yeah. Have a friend out there who’s doing a startup thing.”

“You should call me, then.”

“I will.”

Chris sighed, wormed into sheets. “Mmmmm. Good.”

“Thank you,” Karl murmured.

He opened one eye. “For what?”

Karl pitched down and licked gently at his mouth. “Yes,” he’d said. And they’d left it at that.

“What airline?” the cabbie barks.

“Jet Blue, sir,” Chris says. “Thanks.”

The signs for the airport are flashing by fast and Karl’s fingers are wound in his, his breath beating into Chris’ back. 

“Thank you,” Chris says.

Karl’s lips on his temple, his sunglasses snagged in Chris’ hair. “For what, love?”

Chris lifts his head and kisses him, far-reaching and sweet. “Yes,” he says.

He doesn’t tear up until the plane takes off, sets its wings high and circles the city, turns out over the lake. He hides behind his glasses until they dry, until he drifts off to sleep.

He wakes up over Idaho and digs a notebook out of his bag. Sketches an email to his advisor, another to the head of his program. Puts words on paper for a poem, too, or a new short story, maybe. Lets the words come as they will, lets them spill out over the page.

When they land in Oakland, he turns his phone on as they taxi to the gate. One new message.

_**Thank you for making me feel like myself again, Chris Pine.** _

He smiles, types: 

 **Then we’re even**.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Areiton and theexperienced for their thoughtful-as-always betas.
> 
> Yes, feminist porn is a real thing, and a lovely one at that. As a genre, it "explores concepts of desire, agency, power, beauty, and pleasure at their most confounding and difficult" by using "sexually explicit imagery to contest and complicate dominant representations of gender, sexuality, race, ethnicity, class, ability, age, body type, and other identity markers" ([x](http://thefeministpornbook.com/2012/11/14/hello-world/)). Feminist pornographers also place great emphasis treating their performers ethically and with respect.
> 
> If you're curious about feminist porn, I'd suggest starting [here](http://www.feministpornguide.com/periodictableoffeministporn_2015.jpg) or [here](https://crashpadseries.com/) or [here](https://www.amazon.com/Feminist-Porn-Book-Politics-Producing/dp/155861818X).
> 
> Lastly, the set-up for the scene Chris watches called "String Me Along" is borrowed with great affection from a scene called "Tease" on [this site](http://www.brightdesire.com/). Go watch it. It's glorious.


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